She stashes her promises in crumbling piles behind her bedroom door, her sanity keeping it company from the edge of her dresser. Everything is hanging from a fraying thread.

There was a war in her bedroom and it left chaos on its wake.

He can't find the floor; it's too far buried underneath underneath her life and work. I think the carpet's brown. She laughs, a quiet tinkling laugh, as she shifts through the mess. I dunno, she jokes. Maybe I don't have a floor.

Maybe there's nothing there.

He bites his tongue against some comment about how, realistically, that's not possible.

He lands on the bed, an island rising from a sea of odds and ends. He looks up at her through his eyelashes and decides, she's a mess but, really, he doesn't give a damn because she wears flip flops in the winter and she parts her hair differently everyday and she hasn't owned a pair of sneakers since the fourth grade.

(At least she admits to her impracticality. If there's a fire, I'll have to settle for walking away.)

He laughs, shaking his head, and, when he attempts to stand, he can't find a place to step. Too afraid of stepping on a pair of jeans. Too afraid of leaving a dirty footprint. He drops back down to her bed.

(His momma raised him like this. Polite.)

Nah, don't worry. She shrugs and smiles. You're gonna have to leave you mark somehow, y'know?

He's standing on solid ground now and swallows his pride, racking his brain for something to say and the best he has is a stupid cliche: I'd sooner walk with you than run with someone else.